


Life Is Like A Box of Magnetic Blocks (It's What You Build)

by captnstarshine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Kid Fic, M/M, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Single Parent Shiro (Voltron), holiday-adjacent fluff and sap bc i'm weak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 14:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnstarshine/pseuds/captnstarshine
Summary: Shiro finds Keith’s hand and squeezes.“I never thought,” Shiro’s breath catches, a little, “I never could’ve imagined our family might getbigger, after everything. I never thought I’d have this. You. We’re so fucking lucky to have you.”





	Life Is Like A Box of Magnetic Blocks (It's What You Build)

“We drew pictures of what we’re thankful for, today,” Mr. Smythe tells him cheerfully, as Shiro scoops Tohru up one-armed. “This little one is quite the aspiring artist. Very good shading technique, there.”

Keith is almost entirely to blame for that, Shiro thinks, smile growing.

“And then we played dinosaurs!” Tohru says, baring a tiny, gap-toothed grin in Shiro’s face. Her growl is more adorable than ferocious, and punctuated by a peal of laughter at what must be a fond memory of the game.

“A fearsome Tyrannosaurus-Rex, indeed.” Mr. Smythe chortles, then leans in to stage-whisper from behind his hand: “Still on a dinosaur kick, eh?”

“Understatement,” Shiro says, gratefully taking Tohru’s schoolbag as Mr. Smythe spots it tucked against the row of cubbies and grabs it up wordlessly. “Sounds like a busy day. I’d love to see what you drew, if you want to show me.”

Tohru seems to consider it, then lays her head down on Shiro’s shoulder. “Too tired,” she proclaims.

Shiro shares a smile with Mr. Smythe over Tohru’s head, who indicates that the pictures are tucked in the special folder in Tohru’s schoolbag.

“You can take a nap in the car, baby,” Shiro suggests. Getting Tohru into her coat and boots is an effort, but they manage, and Shiro picks her back up to lean against his shoulder when she reaches for him with tiny, mitten-covered hands. “Do you remember what day it is?”

“Um,” Tohru says. “School day.”

“Well, let’s think about it. What did we do yesterday?”

Tohru huffs a breath as she considers the question. “Went to the museum. Dad made the rocket go the highest!”

The local children’s science museum is a wealth of treasures they’ve yet to exhaust, and for that Shiro is eternally grateful. The bottle rockets—attached to strings and powered by hand-turned wheels—had been Tohru’s favored attraction of the day.

“That’s right. We go to the museum with dad on Thursdays. So if Thursday was yesterday, what day is today?”

“Oh! Friday.”

“Friday,” Shiro agrees. “Which means Keith—”

Tohru perks up, eyes comically wide. “Keith!” She still pronounces it, as she pronounces most things, mostly vowels: _Keef_. She squeezes her arms tight around Shiro’s neck in her joy. “Papa, Keith’s coming over! Kosmo, too?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Will we play dinosaurs?”

The car door opens at the touch of a button, and Shiro angles his body to shield Tohru from a cold gust of November wind that stirs his long scarf, as he laughs. “You’ll have to ask him. If history is anything to judge by, I’m sure he’d love to.”

She falls asleep in her car seat telling Shiro a rambling tale about her day at school, and everything she wants to do with Keith—from playing dinosaurs, to building with her magnetic blocks, to showing him her new light-up sneakers.

She drifts off mid-sentence, and Shiro peeks into the rear-view mirror to see her: head listed to one side, mouth still open slightly, hat falling down to cover one eye.

He chuckles to himself and makes the turn onto their block.

For the moment, Shiro leaves Tohru’s accoutrement and his own side-bag in the car to carefully unbuckle and lift her out of her seat. She twitches once, eyes opening a crack, before settling again.

He’s settled Tohru on the couch with a pillow, winter boots and socks tugged off, and is steeping coffee by the time Keith’s cherry-red bike rumbles up the driveway.

“It’s forty degrees,” Shiro points out as he opens the door.

“I’ve ridden in worse.”

Keith’s cheeks are red and a little chapped. He smiles, almost impish, as he steps in close and tips his head for a kiss. His leather jacket is stiff from the cold, but Keith’s lips are startlingly warm. For a man who grew up in the desert, he thrives well in the cold of the mountains. Keith kicks the door closed behind him, settling his gloved hands on Shiro’s hips. For a few long moments they stand there in the slowly-warming hallway trading unhurried kisses, and Shiro gently cards the tangles out of Keith’s wind-swept hair.

“I’m putting Red away after this weekend,” Keith says, picking their conversation back up, a note of resignation in his voice. “We’re supposed to get snow before Thanksgiving.”

Shiro’s seen the weather report. It doesn’t exactly fill him with joy, but Tohru would enjoy a snow day. “One last hurrah?”

“Mm.”

“C’mon,” Shiro says, plucking the sleeve of Keith’s jacket. “Stay a while. Warm up. Coffee’s just about ready.”

“Tohru?”

“Sleeping. Very excited to see you, though. Which reminds me, make sure she doesn’t roll off the couch while I grab her bag from the car?”

“I’ve got my coat and shoes on already, I’ll go.”

“Sure? It’s unlocked.”

“Yeah. Be right back.” Keith doesn’t move right away. “Another kiss for the road?”

Shiro scoffs, but it’s for show. He’s feeling indulgent. Always seems to be, with Keith. He kisses the corner of Keith’s mouth, soft, just to watch the way Keith’s smile trembles a little for it.

There’s a mug of coffee on the kitchen island when Keith returns; he hangs his jacket, Shiro’s side-bag, and Tohru’s schoolbag on pegs above the shoe-rack before toeing his off. Then he leans against the counter, all long-legs and a heather gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up, and takes the mug gratefully.

They talk in hushed voices, so Tohru can nap in peace.

“Kolivan is going to be in town, after all, and he and the guys agreed to come.”

It takes a moment for Shiro to process that information. “I’m going to need more chairs.”

“Thace wants to know what he should bring.”

Shiro scrubs his hand through his hair. “Oh—I don’t know.” Of the two of them, Adam had always been the one who liked to host. And Thanksgiving was firmly the realm of Adam’s grandmother, who could cook without recipes and without measuring cups. “I’m a little out of my depth here.”

Keith looks at Shiro like he finds this amusing. It probably is, objectively. Shiro thinks, wry, _it’s not rocket science_. He may hold a PhD and direct a team of one-hundred people working on two simultaneous projects, while raising a child—but organizing a _Thanksgiving diner_ is going to be what continues to grey his hair prematurely.

“Okay. What food stuff were _you_ going to make?”

“The turkey and stuffing, for one,” Shiro says. “Gravy. A couple sides. Apple pie. I have a recipe for a chocolate cranberry torte, which sounds really good.”

“That,” Keith says, eyebrows up, “sounds like almost everything.”

“I haven’t picked out wine to pair with the turkey, yet,” Shiro continues. Flashes of dozens of google searches in the wee hours of the morning, and the color-coded spreadsheet he’d made, cloud his vision. “And I don’t know what recipe I should use for the stuffing. Sausage and herb? Cranberry-nut? Wild mushroom? Maybe I should just make two.”

“Mom is allergic to mushrooms.”

Shiro startles. “Shit. See? I’m glad you told me. What if I’d made the mushroom stuffing, and then—”

“Shiro.”

Keith puts down his mug of coffee and steps into Shiro’s space. Runs his hands over Shiro’s shoulders, and up and down his arms. Soothing.

“Did you ask Hunk for advice? Kind of seems like his bag.”

“Yeah. He was very encouraging.” Shiro may be mischaracterizing Hunk a little, given the first words out of Hunk’s mouth had been a nervous ‘ _you’re_ cooking?’. “Suggested I go with my gut. My gut and my heart. He gave me the torte recipe, and a couple turkey tips. I wrote them down.”

Keith nods, thoughtful. “And what are your gut and heart telling you?”

That making a good impression on Keith’s extended family and continuing to keep himself in Krolia’s good graces are two of the most important things he’ll ever do. That deciding to host Thanksgiving would prove to be his undoing.

“I vastly underestimated the task at hand.”

“Or,” Keith suggests, “you’re making it a bigger deal than it is.”

“It _is_ a big deal.”

“Just delegate a few things.”

Unsure how or unable to articulate why, exactly, Shiro feels like this is one situation in which he can’t, settles for saying: “This is _important_.”

“You know my mom loves you, right?” Keith says after a pause, cutting to the core in that way he has.

“You mean she loves Tohru.”

Keith nods. “That goes without saying. Look, I’m going to tell Thace he can bring a side dish or two. And I’ll ask Kolivan to pick up the wine. He’s good at that stuff.”

“Okay.”

“What time do you want mom and I to come over?”

“Whenever you want. I—well. I was going to ask if you wanted to come by for breakfast with Tohru and I. We’ll be making pancakes and cinnamon rolls. It’s a tradition.” Because it was the quiet before the storm, and, historically, the only food Shiro would be allowed to touch the whole day. Some of Shiro’s favorite Thanksgiving memories involve he and Tohru mixing batter, slathering whipped-cream and chopped strawberries over their creation, and saving the extra cinnamon rolls for breakfast the next morning. “It would be really special, if you were there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She keeps asking when you’re going to make your pancake drawings, again.”

Keith’s eyes sparkle. “They really were a hit, huh?”

“You have _no_ idea.”

Chuckling softly, cheeks pink, Keith promises, “I’ll be there.”

The rest of the tension bunching Shiro’s shoulders melts away.

“Do you have pancake mix lying around? Maybe I can whip something up in the morning.”

“She’d love that.” The first and last time Shiro tried to reproduce some of Keith’s famous pancake art in a desperate bid to settle Tohru down and get her to eat something, anything, one fateful afternoon, he’d botched a simple smiley face so badly she cried—half terror, half profound disappointment.

Shiro winces at the memory and changes the subject.

“How about you? How was your day?”

“It was slow. I picked up our new truck, though.”

“With the money from the fundraiser?” Shiro asks, as if he hadn’t been there and covertly dumped into the pot everything he’d been saving up over the previous few months specifically for it.

“That’s the one.”

“And?”

“And it’s great,” Keith says, emphatic. He finishes his coffee and rinses out the mug in the sink as he talks about the truck’s specs—a monster of a thing, from the sound of it. “So it’s got all the bells and whistles, and I got a good deal on it, too. The folks at the station are happy, so I’m happy.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.”

Shiro fixes wide, innocent eyes on him. It earns him a snort.

“You’re not _half_ as sneaky as you think you are.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Give me a break.”

“Papa?” Tohru’s quiet little voice draws their attention. She’s awake, if barely, rubbing her eyes and slowly sitting up on the couch.

“Hey there, sleepy head,” Shiro says, crossing the room. “Have a good nap?”

She nods as Shiro tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She’s warm to the touch from sleeping in her sweater, and Shiro helps her with the buttons. Her eyes are still a little heavy, and she’s the most precious thing Shiro’s ever seen.

“Guess who’s here.”

Suddenly fully awake, Tohru blinks, spots Keith around Shiro’s shoulder and leaps off the couch with a shout of Keith’s name that’s near-painful so close to Shiro’s ear.

By the time Shiro turns, Keith is already down on Tohru’s level and allowing himself to be knocked over by the force of her hug. They’re both laughing—Tohru’s face red from it, and Keith’s nose wrinkled up cutely.

“Oof, you get stronger every time I see you.”

Tohru curls her little fist and brings it up to her ear. “I have big muscles.” Then, “Where’s Kosmo?”

“Oh, Kosmo’s with his grandma, today.”

Tohru’s face crumples. “But I love him.”

With the soft smile he uses just for her, Keith gives Tohru’s trembling chin a gentle bump with one curled knuckle. “He loves you, too. We can see Kosmo tomorrow, pinky promise.”

With one last dramatic sniffle, Tohru holds her pinky out to seal the deal.

“Can we play dinosaurs, then?”

“Absolutely. Just as soon as you wash up and have some juice.” Keith looks to Shiro, who nods confirmation.

Tohru puts up a token protest but runs off to the bathroom to wash up on her own when Keith promises he’ll get out a glass of juice and snack for her, in the meantime.

“It’s like I’m not even here,” Shiro jokes as Tohru sprints down the hallway.

Taking out Tohru’s R2-D2 cup and straw from the cabinet, Keith shrugs. “I’m just better at making snack than you are. And better at playing dinosaurs. And better at making pancake art.”

“The last one, I won’t argue.”

There are at least a dozen outstanding work emails Shiro needs to answer, he knows. But he watches Keith, instead. Wordless and relaxed, Keith cuts up an apple and sets the pieces on Tohru’s favorite plate with a hearty glob of peanut butter. As she returns to the kitchen her eyes light up, and she nods in satisfaction at what’s been laid out for her.

She finishes her juice and snack in record time. Plate tossed unceremoniously in the sink at Shiro’s prompting, she then grabs Keith’s hand and begins telling him all about the games they’re going to play for the next several hours, if she has anything to say about it. (She does.)

Daughter and boyfriend occupied as they are, Shiro takes it upon himself to place a delivery order with Sal’s for their customary Friday-night pizza, and retrieves Tohru’s schoolbag to clean out her lunchbox.

Tucked in the bag alongside her lunchbox are a few toys she’d wanted to bring to school, plus three new rocks she must have found and picked for her ever-growing collection. As Mr. Smythe indicated, there’s also a new addition to the heavy blue folder labeled ‘My Projects.’ Inside are those pages of Tohru’s artwork and craft projects that haven’t migrated to the fridge or walls, and a new sheet, larger than the others and carefully folded:

‘What I’m Thankful For’ is written in Mr. Smythe’s neat bubble letters across the top of the page, and beneath it—a sprawling array of colors and shapes—is Tohru’s artwork.

Shiro lays it out on the countertop, cradles his second mug of coffee in both hands—carefully away from the paper, in the unlikely event that it spills—and studies the page with a smile.

Tohru’s whole life is here, writ down by her own hand: favorite colors and numbers and shapes she learned how to make and now proudly reproduces on every surface she can. Lumpy dinosaurs and what might be the Orion constellation beside a rocket ship and a bowl of something yellow that may be mac-and-cheese (truly her father’s daughter, as if there were any doubt). A firetruck. And, centermost, a series of figures. Unmistakable for the four legs and electric blue fur is Kosmo. Perched atop his back is a tiny figure that must be Tohru herself, and Shiro barely smothers a laugh.

There’s a distinctly more humanoid figure with sandy hair who wears misshapen glasses: Adam. Another has one grey arm, a scribble of two-tone hair, and wide smile: Shiro. Yet another, crowded beside Shiro’s figure, is one with long dark hair and a bright red shirt.

Below, Mr. Smythe’s clarifying addendum adds to Shiro’s sudden and shocking stab of emotion: ‘My family.’

Across the room, Tohru slaps a hand to her forehead with far too much drama for a four-year-old and loudly laments Keith’s inability to follow simple, constantly-changing rules. Strewn across the living room is a mess of couch cushions and throw blankets and toys, apparently an obstacle course of some nature. It’s only been eight minutes.

Shiro looks back down at the drawing. A single dark, damp spot bleeds across a crayon rendition of a telescope, and Shiro curses under his breath. He scrubs at his eyes and wills the prick of tears to fade. It does, as quickly as it came, but Keith is too perceptive by far.

“Shiro?”

Fuck. “It’s fine, I’m fine.” His voice sounds thick. He swallows, musters up the most reassuring smile he can in the face of Keith’s concern. “Pizza should be here in a little while.”

“Ke-eith,” Tohru whines. She tugs insistently on his wrist. “You gotta finish the race!”

“I promise I will,” Keith assures her, “I just have to talk to your papa for a second.”

Tohru huffs dramatically, eyes rolling.

“Keith, it’s really—it’s good. It’s a good thing. We’ll talk later.”

With one last look, Keith turns his attention back to Tohru.

Shiro watches them, wonderingly.

Before Keith met Tohru for the first time, he’d been nervous. Terrified, even. He didn’t know how to act around children, so he said. Worried, in his quiet, intense way, about making a good impression on Shiro’s daughter. Tohru’s approval of him and comfort around him counted for a lot; Shiro—stumbling through the beginnings of their relationship like a newborn foal, eager and determined if laughably clumsy—made that much clear, and Keith assured him he wouldn’t want it any other way.

When it came to it, Keith was wonderful. Treading unfamiliar ground, yes; his instincts were only a little confused, and very sweet.

Keith treated Tohru—then three and in the midst of her _why?_ stage, with an insatiable curiosity—like her own person. Never talking to Shiro about her over her head. Always genuine when he asked after her interests and opinions and listened with all the patience and seriousness he possessed to her rambling or disjointed replies. Over lunch he’d covered the surface of her paper placemat in skillful crayon renditions of animals and a caricature of herself. She’d been devastated when chocolate milk spilled all over it.

Keith had, without fanfare, brought a drawing pad and a package of markers and colored pencils for their second meeting. When, the time after that, Keith brought his massive wolf-dog Kosmo along—well, the rest was history, as they say.

For all Keith’s worrying, for all Shiro’s worrying, they’ve made it this far.

Looking back down at Tohru’s drawing, Shiro smiles.

The pizza arrives, and Keith wrangles Tohru into straightening the living room up with practiced ease. She directs Keith to sit next to her, and watches as he cuts her slice of pizza up into the preferred shapes—small squares. The shaker full of garlic salt is pressed into her outstretched hand, and, finished sprinkling her food she looks up at Shiro in triumph.

Then she takes two bites before deciding she’s had enough.

“Mm, so yummy.” Tohru gives a theatrical pat to her tummy and pushes her plate away. “I’m done. Thank you!”

“That’s very polite, baby, but you have to finish your dinner.”

“Thanks, papa,” Tohru’s already sliding out of her seat; her huge grey eyes are just visible over the table, “but I’m done.”

“Tohru—”

“I’m not Tohru,” she says suddenly, imperiously, “I’m Commander T-Rex.”

“Woah, there, Commander T-Rex,” Keith says, putting down his own slice of pizza to pluck her up before she can dart off out of reach. He shares a look with Shiro that’s all exasperated amusement. “What’s going on?”

“I’m done.”

“I count seven bites left here on your plate.”

“I’m full.”

“Wow, really? Even after all the racing we did?”

Tohru nods, stubborn.

Shiro takes another slice of pizza for himself, content to let Keith try his luck at getting Tohru to eat a full dinner this time.

“I know _I’m_ hungry. Maybe if we wait a few minutes, you’ll feel hungry again.”

Tohru hums, finger to her chin. She shakes her head. “Hmm. My tummy says no. I just want to play dinosaur astronauts.”

“Me too. How about you sit with me and papa while we finish eating, though? And then I can play dinosaur astronauts with you again.”

“Dinosaur astronauts?” Shiro says, thoughtful. “They must have some very interesting spaceships.”

Emphatic, Keith mimes a giant bubble around his head. “Think of the _helmets_ they’d have to wear.”

“And their tails!” Tohru grins.

“I wouldn’t want to be in charge of designing and testing those suits,” Shiro says. “What was the obstacle course for then?”

“Asteroid belt,” Keith supplies.

“Yeah,” Tohru chimes in, lighting up. She’s sitting back in her booster seat and Keith subtly nudges her plate of pizza closer. As she speaks, she holds her hands up in front of her face, all her tiny fingers spread wide; not, apparently, to describe anything visually but as a pure expression of excitement. “We were racing in the asteroid belt! With space ships! They have giant booster rockets and go _really_ fast.” She wiggles her fingers, frowning, like she’s calculating something. “At least a thousand.”

“Kilometers?”

“Kilom-leters,” she parrots.

“Per second?” A nod. “That’s very fast.”

It takes thirty minutes longer than it should to get Tohru to finish her food, but they manage. Well, Keith manages. Between Tohru’s explanations about her imaginary space adventures as a dinosaur astronaut and Shiro’s indulgent musings about what, exactly, a spaceship designed for a T-Rex would look like, Keith undertakes a stealth operation. Absentmindedly, Tohru finishes off her cut-up pizza piece-by-piece as they’re handed to her between bouts of chatter.

What did Shiro ever do to deserve this man?

Dinner officially done, table beginning to be cleared, Tohru makes a break for it: sprinting to retrieve her magnetic blocks from her room. When asked, she crows, “I’m going to build a dinosaur spaceship!”

Shiro is putting the leftover pizza into a tupperware when Keith corners him. He draws Shiro’s attention with a hand cupping his elbow. “What’s going on?”

For the briefest moment, Shiro doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Then his heart kicks into overdrive, pounding away at his ribs.

“Oh. _Oh_ , right. Tohru, do you want to show Keith what you drew today?”

“I’m busy,” she says. Utterly disinterested.

“I can see that. Do you mind if I show him?”

Up to her elbows in magnetic shapes, slowly taking the form of her epic spaceship construction, Tohru just nods her head vaguely.

“One second,” Shiro says, stepping away from Keith and his bemused expression.

He double-checks that the counter is clean of grease, crumbs or water before laying Tohru’s picture down. Keith steps close, lets himself be drawn into Shiro’s side as he looks over the drawing. His eyes wander. “Nice shading,” Keith murmurs, and Shiro can tell he’s finally seen the picture of them all when the smile on his face slips and he goes still.

“Oh.”

Keith’s voice is soft, and small.

Nudging him lightly, Shiro waits until Keith can look at him. There is something fragile and a little guarded in his expression. Gently, Shiro smooths the wrinkle between his brows with a shiny metal thumb.

“Thank you, Keith.”

Keith searches Shiro’s face.

“I—for what?”

It is difficult to put into words. The feeling that he’d failed Adam, and more importantly, failed Tohru. That because of the divorce she was losing something she’d never get back: a sense of stability, a sense of family.

Divorce was the right call. Of that he’s always been sure. Shiro and Adam make for far better friends than partners. And they’d agreed, early on, they’d both do whatever they could to make sure their divorce wouldn’t affect the relationships they had with Tohru.

That didn’t mean it was easy. Or that Shiro didn’t still have his fears.

Then there was Shiro’s accident, hot on the heels of the finalized paperwork, and it’d seemed to him like the worst kind of irony.

When Keith came back into Shiro’s life—with a flash-bang, which Shiro probably should have anticipated—he’d been at his lowest point. Shiro still isn’t entirely certain why Keith didn’t run for the hills, but Keith’s always been stubborn enough for them both and twice as brave.

Standing next to him now, Keith is patient while Shiro gathers his thoughts.

“For everything,” he starts, a little helpless. He thinks of the first time the three of them, plus Kosmo, spent a whole weekend together. Thinks of Keith’s name and number on the pick-up list at Tohru’s school. Thinks of the space in Shiro’s closet filled with Keith’s things. Thinks, with a swoop in his belly, of the day not long-off now when Keith will move in.

A hundred times in a hundred ways, Keith’s shown he wants to be part of their lives. _Loves_ them.

“You know, I…I thought that after the divorce, the best I could hope for was to salvage something of what we had. Me and Adam and Tohru. For her sake.”

Shiro finds Keith’s hand and squeezes.

“I never thought,” Shiro’s breath catches, a little, “I never could’ve imagined our family might get _bigger_ , after everything. I never thought I’d have this. You. We’re so fucking lucky to have you.”

Keith’s squeezing his hand back hard enough that, were it not the prosthetic, it would probably hurt. He ducks his head a little, lets his hair fall in front of his eyes. He’s looking at Tohru’s drawing again.

“I’m the lucky one,” he says. When he meets Shiro’s eyes again, they’re a little glassy but full of fire that warms Shiro to his core. “Shiro, you and Tohru are the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Keith’s head fits near-perfectly into the space beneath Shiro’s chin, when he draws him in.

“God, I’m maudlin, today.” Shiro says, muffled against Keith’s hair.

He feels more than hears Keith’s responding laughter. “Makes two of us.”

“Ke-eith.”

Shiro’s reluctant to let Keith go, now that he has him tucked so close and warm, but such are the sacrifices one makes for their children. There will be time enough for that later, after Tohru’s stories have been read and she’s tucked in her own bed. “You’re being summoned,” Shiro says, smiling.

With one last squeeze, Keith pulls away.

After a little while, Shiro joins them on the floor. Tohru’s creation is impressive in scope and size, thanks in part to Keith’s eye for structural integrity and the veritable sea of magnetic pieces she’s accumulated in the past year. A team of brave dinosaur astronauts—represented by a few figurines she digs out—board the ship, once complete.

All told, it’s the most relaxed evening Shiro’s had in what feels like an age. He almost falls asleep there on the floor, head pillowed on his arm. Tohru had been two months old the last time Shiro napped impromptu on a hard flat surface.

Thanksgiving dinner still looms over his head, visions of burnt turkey and Keith’s seven-foot relatives trying to squeeze into small folding chairs like persistent flies buzzing around his ears.

Tohru falls asleep tucked under Keith’s arm against his side in the middle of her bedtime story, though. And it’s hard to find anything—even the thought of confusing baking powder for baking soda (again)—so dire in the face of that.

**Author's Note:**

> When they start discussing marriage, both Shiro and Keith agree they don't need to go the proposal route. And then each of them immediately turns around and enlists Tohru's help with their own proposal plans. Blergh -- sickeningly cute. ♡
> 
> (New Year's Resolution: just post the thing.)


End file.
